I can’t stop thinking about Isabel. Where is she? What is she doing? Why does she have those violent impulses? Do you think it’s anger? Sometimes I wonder if we all bottle up darkness and rage until it explodes. Are we all capable of murder, do you think? I think we are. There’s a killer inside everyone.
I know there’s a killer inside me.
I’m sorry to be so dark and depressing. I guess that’s what’s on my mind right now.
Leah has made me start going to see a therapist. Looks like I need one!
Anyway. Keep writing.
Tom
Parts of that message remind me of young Tom. The breezy sign-off. The kindness and consideration to ask about her AA meetings. But the rest is someone else entirely. The Tom I know doesn’t talk about violence and murder as though they are daily occurrences, or about the way everyone could kill another person. The Tom I know is gentle.
And then there’s the part that makes my stomach churn. Once, I remember her leaving the house and coming back with blood on her hands. I close my eyes, count to ten, and steady my breathing. There was a night. One night. I did have blood on my hands, and I couldn’t find a cut anywhere on myself. At around 4am, I woke up on the kitchen floor in a panic, in the midst of a terrible nightmare. I hurried to the bathroom, showered, hid my bloody clothes, and went back to bed. But I thought it was a secret. And I’ve never found out where the blood came from.
*
It takes several cups of tea before my fingers stop trembling. While on my third, I receive a message from Rita Blackthorn.
I’m very sorry to hear about your grandmother’s illness. Of course, I’d love to help you in any way I can. I did a little family research recently and did learn more about Simon Blackthorn. I don’t know a lot, but I can try to help. What is your grandmother’s connection with Simon?
Rita
She sounds nice. Normal. Trusting. Of course I feel terrible about lying to her, but I can’t exactly tell her the truth. I send a quick reply.
Thanks so much! Do you fancy grabbing a coffee? I live in Clifton but can travel to you.
My grandmother knew Simon as the husband of one of her friends, Claire Hawker. The Hawker family suffered a tragedy in the 40s, and she’s desperately trying to remember more about that time.
I really appreciate you doing this!
Lizzie
Rita responds within five minutes. She must be online.
Great! I live in London. Could meet in King’s Cross and grab lunch?
We arrange a time and date. I shut the laptop and take a deep breath.
*
“Good morning, sunshine.”
I pull open the curtains. “It’s raining, George.”
“Ah, not when you come to see me,” he says.
“You old charmer, you.” I’m rolling my eyes as I manoeuvre the chair closer to his bed, but his kind words warm me on a cold and wet Monday morning. “I have some news.”
“Good, I hope,” he says.
I nod. “I think so. I’ve managed to track down a descendant of your mother’s ex-husband. I have a feeling that the animosity he showed towards your mother after the break-up is an important lead. She might not know anything, but it’s a place to start.”
“You’ve found out more than anyone else,” George says.
“Simon Blackthorn could have been the person phoning your Mum before the fire. Then again, he might not be. If it’s nothing, I’m going to check out the Pierces. I still think it’s odd that the family all left at the same time. And Mr Pierce sounds dodgy.”
“Does he, now? What makes you say that?”
For some reason, I hold back about the overheard conversation in the doctor’s office. “If his wife did have an affair, he might have psychological issues.” I pause, wondering whether to tell him my suspicions of Simon Blackthorn being Abigail’s real father, then decide not to. That’s a family matter. “I’m going to give Mark a call later and see if he can come with me to meet Rita. That’s the name of the woman related to Simon.”
“Getting on well, are you? Has he shown you around Clifton yet?” George asks. Of course his eyes are twinkling with mischief, and I can’t help but wonder whether part of his plan is to set me and Mark up together, along with uncovering the mystery of his disappearing sister.
“No, not yet. Now, don’t get excited. Trust me when I tell you that you wouldn’t want a granddaughter like me.”
George thumps the bed with his fist. “Don’t you be saying that, Lizzie love. You’re a good person.”
I straighten up his bedding, plump up the pillows and leave him to nap. A good person. What is a good person, really? Is a good person good all the time? Can I be bad for years and then become a good person? Or will I always be bad? My naiveté, addictions, and psychological issues all led to a convicted criminal escaping from her imprisonment. I’m not sure I’m a good person at all.
I have blood on my hands.
Ivy Lodge is setting up a new database for storing client details, which means that for the rest of the day, I’m consumed by the thrilling task of transferring names from one part of the system to another. To be honest, I don’t mind it at all, as it’s a welcome distraction from what I found on Tom’s Facebook account, though I can’t help letting my mind drift back to thoughts about Anna Fielding.
The end of the day comes around quickly for a Monday. At lunchtime, I call Mark, and we agree to meet at the train station on Wednesday morning and travel down to London together. I book the day off work without any trouble. I get a few hundred people moved into the correct database, copying and pasting until my fingers are sore. If I didn’t have that constant niggle at the back of my mind, the one that likes to remind me about Isabel and Tom and Anna Fielding, and even Owen and David Fielding, and of course, my mother and father, I’d be happy.
“You in?” I call as I walk through the door of the bungalow. No one answers, but I hear the sound of the television running in the lounge. Typical teenager, not answering when call. I slip off my shoes, dump my coat and bag, and make my way into the living room. “Tom?”
He’s sat slouched forward with his thumbnail between his teeth. Before I have chance to ask if anything is wrong, I notice what he’s engrossed with what’s on the screen. It’s the news.
“… another body of a young woman was found in a woods. The body was mutilated and dumped in the stream in a forest area near Kidderminster. That’s all we know at the moment. More information is coming in, as we remain live near the scene. This is the second murder that could be connected to Isabel Fielding since her escape from Crowmont Hospital…”
“Fuck.”
Tom finally turns around to fix me with those cold magpie eyes. “She’s killed another one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When Tom turns back to the television screen, I excuse myself and rush to the laptop, where I pull up Google Maps. Geography isn’t my strong point, and I need to know where they found the body. I connect Kidderminster to our current location and let out a long sigh of relief. Too far. No one living in Clifton-on-Sea could travel there and back in one night.
“Tom, do you want a cuppa?” I call through into the living room.
“Are you fucking kidding?”
“Hey.” Angrily, I hurry back into the lounge. “Don’t speak to me like that.”
“Are you stupid, though?” he says. “A woman has been murdered, and you’re putting the kettle on like nothing has happened.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. You know full well that everyone puts the kettle on in times of crisis in this country. What do you think the policewoman did when she found me curled up in a ball, talking to James Gorden’s head? The first thing she did was make me a cup of tea.”
The blood drains from Tom’s face.
“What did Seb do when I ran to him at the farm, bloodied and cold? How fucking dare you believe I’m moving on like nothing’s happened when you damn well know I feel responsible for all of this? Wh
y do you think I’m on medication? Why do you think my mind fucking broke? I’ve indulged this nonsense for too long. I know you’re in pain, but so am I. I know you’re traumatised, but so am I. You accuse me of not talking to you about what happened—well, here I am. What do you have to say to me?”
Tom shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know.”
“Got any secret Facebook accounts you want to tell me about?” I can’t help it. I’m out of control, my anger is a living thing, taking up space within my body, overtaking my brain.
“You’ve been spying on me,” he says.
“No, you idiot. Autofill completed the details on the log-in screen.”
I’m not sure Tom could get any paler, but somehow he does.
“I needed someone to talk to.”
“So did I,” I say. “For some strange reason, I thought I had you, but it appears that I don’t.”
Tom stands. Taller than me. Broader. Puppy fat almost gone, and a man left behind. Where did my boy go? And those eyes are ice-cold.
“I want to move out,” he says. “I want to move on and live my life the way I want to live it. That’s not going to happen here. I look at you, and all I see is Isabel.”
The words are like a knife to my gut. An image of Tom flashes through my mind: him plunging the knife into David Fielding. I run out of the room, barely making it to the kitchen sink before I vomit.
He follows me in. “Jesus.”
My hands are shaking as I pull the tea towel from the oven door and wipe my mouth.
“Are you ill? You’re very pale.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I just… I think it’s the new medication.”
Tom frowns, and a line forms between his eyebrows. “Is it the murdered girl? Is it me?”
I look at my son. My son. I just don’t know what to say to him. I can’t find the words. My eyes fill with tears, and I feel like the loneliest, stupidest woman in the world. He wants to get away from me because I’ve never been able to protect him. Why should he want to stay with me?
He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans and waits for me to answer. Finally, I compose myself enough to be able to croak out a response. “I thought we’d be a team. Us against the world. Surviving together. But… what happened with Isabel has pushed us apart from each other.”
“I just need some space, that’s all.”
I nod, thinking about those months when Tom was in foster care and I holed myself up in the cottage, afraid of the world. I don’t want to be alone.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I wish I knew whether he means it.
*
The next day, I get obligatory phone calls from both Adam and DCI Murphy. Both think we’re—I’m—safe here. The murder was 200 miles away, which seems to indicate that Isabel still doesn’t know where we are. I’ve decided to stay off work, claiming that a migraine has me bedridden. The reality is that I do stay in bed and contemplate life without Tom living with me. I’m afraid of his leaving, both for me and for him. There’s much to be done to help him heal, but perhaps he needs to do that alone. Perhaps I’m more of a hindrance than a help: making him angry, causing him to unleash his temper. The last year has seen him grow into a harder, colder version of himself. But perhaps that’s normal after the trauma he’s experienced.
Some people shut down. Me, I’m rawer and more exposed than ever. But Tom is living in his own hardened shell.
While I hide in my bedroom, I hear him moving around, collecting his things. One of his friends from the chip shop needs a housemate for a small apartment. It’s all set up and ready to go. I hear his wardrobe door open and shut, the sound of coat hangers clattering to the floor, bags being zipped. Will he have enough money? He’ll need a second job. Can he even keep his job with that temper? Why is this so hard? He’s old enough to move out, and yet I know he isn’t ready. I know he’s still a child. My child, the one I refused to acknowledge as mine as soon as he left my womb. Who am I to make him stay with me?
He leaves without saying goodbye, no doubt hoping to avoid a scene, but I’m all cried out. I’m even slightly relieved that the event is over. It’s happened. He’s left. And now he has the responsibility of keeping himself safe against Isabel.
But the question is: would he keep me safe?
He sent those messages to Anna Fielding, putting us both in danger. And I have no way of knowing what he’ll do when he’s out there in the world. Will he tell someone his real name? Will he tell them who I am? #justiceforalison might get a whole lot more dangerous. I never thought I would feel this disconnected and wary of Tom, but we’ve gone our separate ways now.
*
Dr Qamber’s office is sunny this afternoon. She has the blinds down a touch to stop the light from getting in my eyes. Clifton is bright today. Even the old shopfronts seemed more cheerful as I passed them on the bus. I must resemble a grey cartoon next to the colourful town.
“He went, and I didn’t stop him,” I admit. “It made me feel weak, watching him go, but somehow I think it’s better for both of us. I make him angry all the time, and I’m not sure I can live with that anymore.”
“You call yourself weak for letting Tom move out, but I think it shows great strength. The anger issues you mentioned are important here. Is it possible that you have been in an abusive relationship with Tom since you moved away from your last residence? The way he lashes out at you makes me think that he was becoming your abuser. Stopping that cycle from happening makes both of you extremely brave,” she says.
It’s like thinking through soup today. My mind refuses to cooperate. Even this simple theory feels like a complicated maths equation. My mouth is dry, and I keep swallowing. Thoughtfully, Dr Qamber pushes a glass of water towards me. I nod my thanks and take a sip.
“Like my father. His father.”
“We all inherit a few bad habits from our parents,” she points out. “But that doesn’t mean we have to become them. There’s no destiny written that says Tom must be abusive because his father was. It’s possible that he learned some behaviour from his father, and he began to cycle into that behaviour. His moving out was a way of stopping it before it got worse.”
“So, there’s still good in him?”
“That’s an odd thing to say.” Dr Qamber leans closer. “Why wouldn’t there still be good in him? Tom may have anger issues, but hasn’t he always been the victim of the things that have happened to you both?”
“Yes,” I admit. “But… he’s changed so much that I don’t recognise him.”
“Adolescence is a complicated time. No one truly understands who they are at that age. You might not recognise him because of the steep difference in his personality since he’s grown into a man. It doesn’t mean you won’t come to recognise him,” she adds.
“He needs to be away from me in order to grow,” I say. “That’s what hurts. I’m not good enough.”
“I think that’s all we have time for today, Leah,” she says. “But it might be a good idea for you to do something for me before next week. I want you to make a list of all the things you like about yourself.”
That’ll be a short list. “Okay, I will.”
Dr Qamber purses her lips as though she wants to say more. She probably wants to grab me by the shoulders and shake me until I see sense. I’ll play along with her games and write my list about how I’m actually a good person, even though deep down, I know I’m bad. Rotten to the core. How else do you explain the night I found myself covered in blood?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ISABEL
I heard they found poor Chloe. It’s all over the newspapers and on the televisions. Of course that means my face is more recognisable than ever. That’s why I drove to a secluded spot somewhere between Birmingham and Wales, slept for a day, then carried on until I found a tiny village in Wales to hide away for a little while.
I wonder if you’ve read the newspapers, Leah. Have you seen my art? I hope so.
Self-p
reservation is important now. I’m like a new, refreshed version of myself, ready to find you, to complete what started when you first walked through the door at Crowmont Hospital. I could not hunt you looking like I did, the way you probably remember me. Anyone would see me and consider me an undesirable. A vagrant. That’s useful for disappearing, but not useful for entering back into society, which I think I might have to do in order to find you. Of course, that’s also extremely risky.
I think we both know I’ll succeed. I always do.
First, a wash. All I had was a stream and a bar of soap, but it did the trick. My bloody clothing, worn while deconstructing Chloe, had already been burned carefully, away from the murder scene. I thought I’d washed away the blood from my skin, but somehow there was more to find, and it dissolved into the stream and washed away. I used some of Chloe’s cleaner clothes to dress in. Her bra was too big, her jeans tight around the thighs. My hair dried as the sun rose. The dye was growing out, and I needed to change my appearance again. This time, I needed help.
Venturing back into society meant getting a proper haircut, clothes, and money. Luckily, Chloe left me the rest of her stash, which I managed to sell to a couple of gormless teenage boys outside a Comprehensive school. It was risky, but I kept a hat low down on my head, did my best junkie impression, and took as much cash as they had on them. Just about enough for petrol and a haircut, though I would need to dye my hair myself again.
The tiny village provided a small hairdresser owned by a plump woman called Carol. The shop is appropriately named “Hair By Carol”, confirming exactly who will cut your hair. I sat in the chair and kept my shoulders back, my head held high. This was perhaps the riskiest part of my plan. On the way to the hairdresser, I bumped into an old lady on the street and helped her retrieve her belongings from the pavement. One of those belongings might or might not have ended up going in my pocket, and now I was sporting a rather fetching pair of reading glasses with chrome frames. A pair of glasses drastically change an appearance, or so I was led to believe from Superman cartoons.
Two For Joy (Isabel Fielding Book 2) Page 12
